by Robin Hobb
He swept past me and I followed behind at a discreet distance, nodding to his words as he instructed me in how he wished his things packed. Yet when we reached his rooms and I closed the door behind us, I saw his well-stuffed travelling bags already waiting on the chair. I turned to the sound of him latching the door behind us. He gestured at my room just as the door of it opened and Chade emerged into our midst.
‘There you are and not a moment too soon. The Queen has received your tidings, and commands that you depart immediately. I do not think she will be completely at ease until the boy is under this roof again. Well, and neither will I.’ He bit his lower lip briefly and then announced, more to Lord Golden than to me, ‘The Queen has decided that Huntswoman Laurel will go with you. She readies herself now.’
‘We don’t need her,’ Lord Golden exclaimed in annoyance. ‘The less who know of this business, the better.’
‘She is the Queen’s own Huntswoman, and in her confidence in many things. Her mother’s family lives less than a day’s ride from Galeton. She claims to know the area well from childhood times spent there, so that may be a help to you. Besides, Kettricken is determined you will take her. Well do I know the futility of arguing with the Queen when she has made up her mind to something.’
‘I recall something of that myself,’ Lord Golden replied, but there was much of the Fool in that rueful voice. I felt a smile crook the corner of my own mouth. I, too, knew what it was to quail before the blue determination of my queen’s gaze. I wondered who this Laurel was, and what she had done to win the Queen’s confidence. Did I feel a prick of envy that someone had taken my place as Kettricken’s confidante at court? Well, it had been fifteen years since I had filled that role. Had I expected her to take no one in my place?
Lord Golden’s displeased resignation broke into my thoughts. ‘Well, so be it, then, if it must. She can come, but I’ll not wait upon her. Tom, are not you packed yet?’
‘Close enough,’ I rejoined and recalled myself enough to add, ‘My lord. I shall be but a moment. I’ve little enough to pack.’
‘Excellent. See that you bring Scrandon’s wares, for I will have you dressed appropriately to serve me in Galekeep.’
‘As you will, sir,’ I replied, and left them to step into my chamber. I put the bundle of new garments into the new saddle pack I found there. It was marked with Lord Golden’s cock pheasant. I added a few of my old garments for the night work I expected to be doing in Galeton, and then looked about the room. I already wore my serviceable sword. There was nothing else to add to the pack. No poisons, no cunningly made small weapons to smuggle along. I felt strangely naked despite having gone without them for years.
As I emerged with my packed bags slung over my shoulder, Chade stopped me with a lifted hand. ‘One more small item,’ he offered sheepishly, and held out a leather roll without meeting my eyes. As I took it into my hands, I knew the contents without having to check it. Picks for locks, and other subtle tools of the assassin’s trade. Lord Golden looked aside as I slipped the roll inside my pack. Of old, my clothing had featured hidden pockets for such things. Well, I hoped I would not have to be at this long enough to make such concerns necessary again.
Our farewells were hurried and odd. Lord Golden bid Chade a formal farewell, as if there were an entire audience of strangers watching them. Thinking I should emulate their example, I offered Chade a servant’s bow, but he seized me by the arms and embraced me hastily. ‘Thank you, my boy,’ he muttered by my ear. ‘Go in haste and bring Dutiful back to us. And go easy on the boy. This is as much my fault as his.’
Emboldened, I replied, ‘Watch over my boy for me, then. And Nighteyes. I hadn’t thought I’d be burdening Jinna with him, let alone a pony and cart.’
‘I’ll see they come to no harm,’ he offered, and I know he saw the gratitude in my eyes. Then I hastened to unlatch the door for Lord Golden, and followed at his heels carrying our bags as he strode through Buckkeep. Many called out farewells to him, and he acknowledged them warmly but briefly.
If Lord Golden had sincerely hoped to leave Laurel behind, she disappointed him. She was standing at the stable door, holding all our horses and waiting for us with every evidence of impatience. I placed her in her middle to late twenties. She was strongly built, not unlike Kettricken herself, long-boned and muscled, yet still womanly in form. She was not from Buck, for our women tend to be small and dark, and Laurel was neither. She was not fair like Kettricken, but her eyes were blue. Her brown hair was sun-streaked with blonde, and bleached near white at her temples. Sun had browned her face and hands. She had a narrow straight nose above a strong mouth and determined chin. She wore the leathers of a hunter, and her horse was one of those small, wiry ones that leaps like a terrier over any barrier and can race like a weasel through the most tangling brush. He was a homely little gelding, and his eyes shone with his spirit. Her small baggage roll was secured behind her saddle. As we approached, Malta lifted her head and whickered eagerly to her master. My black stood by uninterestedly. It was oddly humiliating.
‘Huntswoman Laurel. Ready to go, I see,’ Lord Golden greeted her.
‘Yes, my lord. Waiting only for you to be ready.’
At this, they both glanced at me. Recalling abruptly that I was Lord Golden’s servant, I took Malta’s reins from Laurel and held her while Lord Golden mounted. I fastened both our saddle-packs onto my black, a process she did not much approve of. As I took my reins from Laurel, she smiled at me and proffered a hand. ‘Laurel of the Downs family near Pitbank. I am her majesty’s Huntswoman.’
‘Tom Badgerlock. Lord Golden’s man,’ I replied as I bowed over her hand.
Lord Golden had already set his horse in motion with a noble disregard for the doings of servants. We both mounted hastily and set off after him. ‘And where is your family from, Tom?’ Laurel asked.
‘Um. Near Forge. On Bramble Creek.’ Bramble Creek was what Hap and I called it. If the creek near our cottage had any other name, I had never heard it. But the impromptu pedigree seemed to satisfy Laurel. The black was annoying me by tugging at her bit and trying to move up. Evidently she was not used to following another horse. Her stride was longer than Malta’s as well. I held her in place, but it was a near constant battle of wills.
Laurel gave me a sympathetic look. ‘New mount?’ ‘I’ve had her less than the day. Discovering her temperament on a journey may not be the best way to get to know her.’
She grinned at me. ‘No, but it may be the quickest. Besides, what choice do you have?’
We left the castle by the west gate. In my boyhood at Buckkeep, this gate had been kept secured at most times, and the road that led from it had been little more than a goat-path. Now it stood open, with a small manned guardhouse next to it. We were passed out with scarcely a pause, and found ourselves on a well-travelled road that traversed the hills behind Buck Castle before winding down to the riverside. The steepest bits of the old path had been rerouted, and the whole way widened. Tracks told me that carts used this meandering path, and as it carried us on our wandering way down to the river, I caught glimpses of wharves below, and the roofs of warehouses. I was still shocked when I began to catch glimpses of cottages back beneath the trees.
‘Folk did not use to live there,’ I said. I bit my tongue before I added that Prince Verity had loved to hunt these hills. I doubted they offered much game any more. Trees had been cleared to allow small gardens to be cultivated. Donkeys and ponies grazed in brushy pastures.
Laurel nodded to my surprise, but added, ‘Then you have not been here since the Red Ship War ended. All this has sprung up in the last ten years or so. When trade improved, more folk wanted to live near Buckkeep, and yet did not want to be too far from the castle lest the raids resume.’
I could think of no sensible reply to her words, but the new stretch of town still surprised me. There was even a tavern as we got closer to the docks, and a hiring hall for rivermen. We rode past a row of warehouses that fronted
onto the docks. Donkey-carts seemed the favoured transportation. Blunt-nosed river craft were tied up to the docks, unloading cargo from Farrow and Tilth. We passed another tavern, and then several cheap rooming-houses such as sailors seem to favour. The road followed the river upstream. Sometimes it was wide and sandy; in other places timbers had been laid in a sort of boardwalk over boggy stretches. The other horses seemed to take no notice of the change, but at every one we traversed, my black slowed her pace and set back her ears. She did not like the drumming of her hooves on the timber. I set my hand to her withers and quested towards her, offering reassurance. She turned her head to roll an eye at me, but remained as distant as ever. She probably would have refused to go on if there had not been two other horses to follow. She was plainly far more interested in her own kind than in any companionship I might offer.
I shook my head at the difference between her and the amiable horses in Burrich’s stable, and wondered if his Wit had made the difference. Whenever a mare birthed a foal, Burrich was at her side, and the baby knew the touch of his hand almost as soon as it knew the lick of its mother’s tongue. Was it merely the early presence of a human that had made the beasts in his stable so accepting, or was it his own Wit, suppressed but still present, that had made them so receptive to me?
The afternoon sun beat down on us, and the sun bounced off the river’s wide and gleaming surface. The thudding hooves of the three horses were a pleasant counterpoint to my thoughts as I pondered. Burrich had seen the Wit as a dark and low magic, a temptation to let the beast in my nature overwhelm me. Common lore agreed with him and went further; the Wit was a tool for evil, a shameful magic that led its practitioners into degradation and wickedness. Death and dismemberment was the only recognized cure for the Wit. My equanimity over Dutiful’s absence was suddenly threatened. True, the boy had not been kidnapped. But although the Skill had let me find him, it was undoubtedly the Wit the boy was employing in his night hunts. If he betrayed himself to anyone, he might be put to death. Perhaps not even his status as a prince would be enough to protect him from that fate. After all, the Wit had been enough to tumble me from the favour of the Coastal Dukes straight into Regal’s dungeons.
No wonder Burrich had given up all use of the Wit. No wonder he had so often threatened to beat it out of me. Yet I could not regret having it. Curse or blessing, it had saved my life more often than it had endangered it. And I could not help but believe that my deep sense of kinship with all life enhanced my days. I drew a deep breath and cautiously let my Wit unfold into a general sensing of the day around me. My awareness of both Malta and the Huntswoman’s horse sharpened, as did their acknowledgement of me. I sensed Laurel, not as another rider beside me, but as a large and healthy creature. Lord Golden was as unknowable to my Wit as the Fool ever was. From even that sense, he rippled aside, and yet his very mystery was a familiar one to me. Birds in the trees overhead were bright startles of life amongst the leaves. From the largest of the trees we passed, I sensed a deep green flow of being, a welling of existence that was unlike an animal’s awareness and yet was life all the same. It was as if my sense of touch expanded beyond my skin to make contact with all other forms of life around me. All the world shimmered with life, and I was a part of that network. Regret this oneness? Deny this expanded tactility?
‘You’re a quiet one,’ Laurel observed. With a start I became aware of her as a person again. My thoughts had run so deep, I had almost forgotten the woman riding beside me. She was smiling at me. Her eyes were pale blue, but with rings of darker blue at the edges. One iris, I noted, had an odd streak of green in it, radiating out from the centre. I could think of no reply so I simply shrugged and nodded. Her smile grew wider.
‘Have you been Huntswoman for the Queen long?’ I asked, simply to be saying something.
Laurel’s eyes grew thoughtful as she totted up the years. ‘Seven years now,’ she said quietly.
‘Ah. Then you know her well,’ I rejoined, wondering how much she truly knew of our present errand.
‘Well enough,’ Laurel replied, and I could almost see her wondering the same about me.
I cleared my throat. ‘Lord Golden visits Galeton in search of gamebirds. He has a passion for collecting feathers, you know.’ I did not directly ask any question.
She looked at me from the corner of her eye. ‘Lord Golden has many passions, it is said,’ she observed in a low voice. ‘And the funds to indulge them all.’ She gave me another glance, as if to ask if I would defend my master, but if there was an insult, I did not take its meaning. She looked ahead and spoke on. ‘As for me, I but travel along to scout the hunting for my queen. She likes to go after gamebirds in the autumn. I have hopes that in Galeton woods we may find the kind that she likes best.’
‘So do we all hope,’ I agreed. I liked her caution. We would get along well enough, I decided.
‘Have you known Lord Golden long?’ she asked me.
‘Not directly,’ I hedged. ‘I had heard he was looking for a man, and I was glad when an acquaintance recommended me.’
‘Then you’ve done this kind of work before?’
‘Not for some time. For the past ten years or so I’ve lived quietly, just my boy and me. But he’s of an age to apprentice out, and that takes hard coin. This is the fastest way I know to earn it.’
‘And his mother?’ she asked lightly. ‘Won’t she be lonely with both of you away?’
‘She’s gone many years,’ I said. Then, realizing that Hap might sometime venture up to Buckkeep, I decided to keep as close to the truth as I could. ‘He’s a fosterling I took in. I never knew his mother. But I think of him as my son.’
‘You’re not married, then?’
The question surprised me. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Neither am I.’ She gave me a small smile as if to say this gave us much in common. ‘So, how do you like Buckkeep so far?’
‘Well enough. I lived close by when I was a boy. It’s changed a great deal since then.’
‘I’m from Tilth myself. Up on the Branedee Downs is where I grew up, though my mother was from Buck. Her family lived not far from Galeton; I know the area, for I ranged there as a child. But mostly we lived near the Downs, where my father was Huntsman for Lord Sitswell. My father taught both my brothers and me the skills of being a huntsman. When he died, my older brother took his position. My younger brother returned to live amongst my mother’s people. I stayed on, mostly training the coursing horses in Lord Sitswell’s stable. But when the Queen and her party came hunting there years ago, I turned out to help, for the party was so large. The Queen took a liking to me, and –’ she grinned proudly ‘– I’ve been her Huntswoman ever since.’
I was trying to think of something more to say when Lord Golden beckoned us both to come closer.
I urged the black forwards and when we were close, he announced, ‘Those were the last of the houses for a way. I did not want folks saying that we rode in great haste, but neither do I wish to miss this evening’s only ferry from Lampcross. So now, good people, we ride. And, Badgerlock, we’ll see if that black is truly as fleet as the horse-seller said. Keep up as best you can. I’ll hold the ferry for us all.’ So saying, he touched his heels to Malta and let out her reins. It was all the permission she required. She sprang forwards, showing us her heels.
‘My Whitecap can match her any day!’ Laurel proclaimed, and gave her horse her head.
Catch them! I suggested to the black, and was almost shocked at her competitive response. From a walk, she all but leapt into a run. The smaller horses had the lead on us. Packed mud flew up from their hooves, and Malta led only by virtue of the narrowing trail. My black’s longer stride diminished their lead until we were close behind them, getting the full benefit of the mud they threw. The sound of us behind them spurred them to greater effort and once more they pulled ahead of us. But I could feel that my black had not yet hit her peak. There was still unrealized reach in her stride, and the tempo of her gait said that
she had not reached her hardest gallop. I tried to hold her back where the flying clods would not shower us so heartily, but she paid no heed to the rein. The moment the trail widened, she surged forwards into the gap, and in a few strides she passed them both. I heard them both cry out to their horses, and I thought they would overtake us. But like a lengthening wolfhound on the scent, my black reached out to seize even longer strides of the path and fling it behind us. I glanced back at them once, to see both their faces alight with the challenge.
Faster, I suggested to my black. I did not really think she had more speed in her, but as a flame roars up a dry tree, she surged forwards again. I laughed aloud at the pure joy of it, and saw her ears flicker in response. She did not reach towards my mind with any thought, but I felt a tentative glimmer of her approval. We would do well enough together.
We were first to reach Lampcross Ferry.
FIFTEEN
Galeton
Since the time of the Piebald Prince, the scouring of the Witted has been accepted within the Six Duchies as matter-of-factly as enforced labour for bad debt or flogging for thieves. It was the normal way of the world, and unquestioned. In the years following the Red Ship War, it was natural that the purging should begin in earnest. The Cleansing of Buck had freed the land of the Red Ship Raiders and the Forged ones they had created. Honest folk hoped to purify the Six Duchies of unnatural taints completely. Some were, perhaps, too swift to punish on little evidence. For a time, accusations of being Witted were enough to make any man, guilty or not, tremble for fear of his life.
The self-styled Piebalds took advantage of this climate of suspicion and violence. While not revealing themselves, they publicly exposed well-known figures who were possessed of the Wit but never spoke out against the persecution of their more vulnerable fellows. It was the first attempt by the Witted as a group to wield any sort of political power. Yet it was not the effort of a people to defend themselves against unjust persecution, but the underhanded tactic of a duplicitous faction determined to seize power for themselves by any available means. They had no more loyalty to themselves than a pack of dogs.
